Crystal Ball
by Ebony10
Summary: Something happens to Lisbon and Jane reacts- this is the catalyst for change. With a bit of angst. Kind of a RJ fic. Jisbon/Jello
1. White

Okay, so this is seriously going to feel very angsty and depressing for a while, but I promise that it will not always be that way. And it won't end that way. Not sure how long it will be. Also, just wanted to send a quick thank you to Catherine, who reviewed my story Saving the World. You may not read this story, but on the off-chance you do: thank you for the lovely review. You don't know how inspiring it was to me.

Also thank you to Tro and Div for being inspirations! And to hardlyloquacious for being a voracious writer and keeping the fandom alive.

_**Crystal Ball**_

**Chapter One**

He lay back, looking up at the orb above. It was round and seemed so perfect.

Bright. Why was it so bright?

He squinted a bit, then blinked. Everything was still bright. Even more bright after the darkness behind his eyelids.

And white. Numbingly white. It made the light seem harsher, stronger. His eyes strayed from the glass ball above, glancing at glaringly white walls. He blinked again and for a second it seemed there was…something. Red? A…a face? He blinked and it was blank.

White.

Bright.

His gaze returned to the ball. It was translucent and opaque and the same time, bright and smooth. It reminded him of…yes, that was it. This was one of his dad's props. It must be. A crystal ball.

He tried to sit up. He had left his dad, the show, a long time ago. Right?

He couldn't move aside for turning his head. For a moment, he was startled, panicked, scared. It was fleeting.

He must be sleeping. He stared at the crystal ball again, wondering why people put so much faith in a simple object like it. He supposed it was…pretty. In its own way. Light seemed to come from it and yet move within it at the same time. It was bright and hurt his eyes a bit, but the more he stared at it, the more his eyes adjusted. He began to see the subtle shading to it, its gentle curves.

Yes, he could sort of see why people could become entranced in it. His eyes closed again and he seemed to see it in flashes on the back of his eyelids. A white pale circle.

It morphed. It was…a face again. Not red. Not lines…a woman. Brown hair and green eyes. Then suddenly blond hair and blue eyes. And just as suddenly drenched in red. His hands twitched, wanting to do _something_. Eyes blue, then green, then blue again until the red covered both colors and he didn't know which eyes he was seeing. Everything was red.

Dripping. Dripping.

It was dripping everywhere.

It would ruin the white. Stain it.

His eyes flew open.

No. No, it was still white. Bright.

He found the crystal ball again and thought briefly of the deep crimson of the curtains his dad had used in their tent at the carnival. He sort of…liked this white. It made him remember. It made him forget.

His breath hitched slightly.

Forget.

Forget what?

He couldn't remember. He thought it might be important…

His mind skittered closer to those faces. Those two women. Just as fast, they were pushed from his thoughts.

No. He couldn't remember. Didn't want to. The red would be permanent. His wife—_no_—people were always talking about how hard it was to get out red stains.

He liked this white.

It made him forget.


	2. Red

Okay, I know the first few chapters may be a bit confusing (unless you've already figured out what's going on—if so, you may be as messed up as me. Lol), but don't worry. It's meant to be that way and it will all become clear soon. I hope.

**Chapter Two**

_She was on the ground, not moving. Still. So still._

_Why was she so still?_

_He moved closer. He couldn't get closer. And then suddenly he was too close. And the pavement—why was the pavement so dark? The stain seeped out, spreading across the pavement._

Spreading. Spreading.

_Until it reached his beat up brown shoes. He crouched and touched two fingers to the dark concrete. They came away red._

Always red.

_He looked back over to her. Her hair was dark, matted with liquid. So dark he couldn't see the color, but he just knew._

It was red. It always was.

_His hands hung limply at his side for a moment before moving—seemingly of their own volition. He took a step closer to her, hands gliding through the air in movements that were both familiar and strange._

_She wasn't moving. Would she ever move again?_

_He needed her to move. He needed…_

The light was bright. The room was white. He blinked down at his hands, stuck under the faucet of the sink. The white porcelain lay underneath water that was stained a pale pink. The warm water fell from the faucet, pouring over his hands. Through them. Then hitting the porcelain pink rather than clear. By the touch of his hands, the water was transformed. His lips twitched in a small smirk.

Like a baptism. Touch. Water. Transformation.

He stood there until the water ran cold. He didn't feel the chill. He stared at the water running.

Running. Running.

He stared until it ran clear.

And then he raised his eyes to the small, cracked mirror in front of him. A man with blue eyes and wavy blond hair looked back. The man looked tired. Why was he so tired? Lines created a fine web around the tired blue eyes. Dead eyes. Vacant eyes.

_Her eyes were closed, but he knew that green gaze would stare up into nothing if they were open. Dead. Vacant._

He shook his head, ridding it of the dark-haired woman's image. The man in front of him did the same, the movement marred by the network of cracks in the glass.

Without turning off the water, he turned and went to the bed across the room. Now _he_ was tired. He didn't want to see that man, didn't know him, didn't want to know him. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to forget. Or remember. He couldn't tell which.

He lay back and looked hard at the crystal ball. Wondered if it could tell him something. Wondered what people thought when they saw it, when they asked questions of it.

"_The Kingdom of God is a real place…"_

The words came on the heels of a memory of red hair and with it a rush of loneliness, longing, pain, panic. He blinked, pushing it away.

He didn't want remember. He wanted to forget. Definitely forget.

He concentrated on the crystal ball and closed his eyes.


	3. Oblivion

I was extremely excited to have a friend message me with what she thought was going on and she was right! I was getting a bit nervous that I had made it too…disjointed, I guess. But the tone of the fic actually follows his progression so the style will morph a bit throughout. After this chapter, things are definitely going to be much clearer (I think).

**Chapter Three**

"_Jane. Patrick. It's Lisbon…it's—it's Teresa. Can you hear me?"_

The voice was too familiar.

"_Will you talk to me?"_

He could practically see the concerned green eyes looking at him. Penetrating. The swing of her dark hair as she leaned towards him.

He wanted to lean back to her. But no. Silly.

It was silly. She was gone.

_She was still on the pavement, hair matted with liquid and stain spreading out from her prone body. Angry red on the skin of her cheek, spilling down on her throat. Seeping into her clothes, blossoming on the fabric like a morbidly beautiful flower._

_Everywhere._

_It was everywhere._

_She was dead. He wanted to go to her. Wanted to hold her. Hold his hands against her, press them to her wounds. Keep the blood on the inside. Where it belonged. He wanted to heal her._

_He wished his hands didn't ruin everything they touched._

He stared through her. She was dead. If he concentrated on the white wall behind her it would be okay.

"_The Kingdom of God is a real place…"_

There was bright white everywhere.

When he closed his eyes there was darkness. There was also sometimes oblivion.

He opened his eyes again and there was the crystal ball. It was always there. He wished he really could see into it, believe in its powers.

"_Hail Mary, full of grace…"_

He wondered if he had ever believed.

Tooth fairies, Santa Clause, witches—

"_Weird witch-lady didn't burn you an effigy and bind you to her power."_

—psychics , God…

He had seen the man behind the curtain and he looked a lot like his own father. He blinked and his father's image wavered.

_Red curtains. A dark intimate atmosphere. Another mark. Money. Always money. His father piling the bills, counting them._

_Counting. Counting._

He squeezed his eyes shut. His scalp felt itchy. Was there gel in his hair?

_He waited to go on stage in a dapper suit, hair slicked back away from his face. Best to make the most of his soulful eyes._

It was itchy, but he didn't want to get gel all over his hands. He got up and moved to the sink.

The mirror was gone. Probably taken out to bring in one that was unbroken. Good thing, too. There had been a corner that was missing. Disgraceful.

But it meant that he couldn't see if there was gel in his hair. He really didn't want the gel in his hair.

It was irksome.

Resigned, he raised his hands to his head. Bright white bandages embraced his wrists. He looked at them, puzzled.

_The large man lay on the couch, arm bandaged and out of it from the pain medication. He had behaved predictably, running into the burning house to save the day. Only Rigsby—"_

The moment, the memory, was gone in an instant. He ignored the bandages—so brightly white—and ran his hands through his hair. Funny, didn't feel like there was any gel.

_Hair slicked back, he smiled at the cameras, putting on his game face. He couldn't wait to get home. He had plans with Charlotte—_

He pulled at his hair, the sharp pain in his scalp matching that in his chest. He emptied his mind and was calm again.

Lowering his hands, he sank to the ground with his back to the wall. He tipped his head back so he could stare up at the crystal ball.

He wanted to believe in it. Wanted to believe its lies.

Wanted to believe that life could be beautiful.


	4. Sanity

A short update. I see this as the place where the tide starts to change…Hopefully, I'll get one up soon.

This chapter is for Tro- Happy Christmas!

**Chapter Four**

"_Jane—Patrick—answer me, dammit!"_

She was there again. It seemed like she came every day. His life was measured in stretches of black oblivion and swirls of red and white and a face that held green eyes.

"_Jane, please. Just say something. Anything. Show me that you're here."_

He couldn't talk to her. Not when he knew it wasn't right. She wasn't here. Just his mind playing tricks on him. He didn't move, stayed staring forward. Eyes blinking. Chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He wanted her to go.

She made him remember.

_Red seeping into her clothes, blossoming on the fabric like a morbidly beautiful flower…_

He wanted her to stay.

He wanted to trade anything for her. _Everything_for her.

_He__wanted__to__heal__her._

Ignoring her—the ghost of her—he laid back on the bed and stared up at the crystal ball…

No.

The light. It was a light.

The brightness still hurt his eyes, but it was so white in here that he had become rather used to it. And what was a little pain in his eyes compared to the pain in his chest? The throbbing in his head…

Was he a coward to want to stay here? To seek oblivion?

"_I__'__ll__be__back__…__just__…__I__—__I__'__ll__be__back.__"_

Not a coward then. He must really belong here. In this locked room. White walls, white ceiling, white floors. White bed. White sink. White toilet. The dim outline of a mirror long removed. The glowing orb on the ceiling—the crystal ball—_no_, the light fixture.

He now knew the red wasn't there. It wouldn't drip down the walls. It wouldn't pour out of the faucet. It wouldn't fill the sphere on the ceiling.

It was in his mind. It covered everyone he saw there.

It ruined everything.

Every face.

Every memory.

_His daughter laughed, turning around as her little legs pedaled the tricycle. "Look, daddy!"_

_He grinned back at her and she turned again to face forward, her curly blond hair flying out behind her. The ringlets glowed gold in the sunlight._

_And suddenly they were red._

_She was a broken and mangled body lying among red-stained sheets._

He blinked up at the ceiling.

_She_wasn't red. At least not when she appeared and talked to him.

It wasn't normal to see dead people.

Even _he_ knew that.

As long as she came back, he belonged here. He should really want her to stay away so he could leave. It wasn't a place normal—_sane_—people wanted to be.

He hoped she wouldn't wait too long to come back.


	5. Done

Wow, I can't believe I haven't written anything for so long. Well, I finished my master's degree and moved across the country. I am working 3 jobs (soon to be 4) to pay bills (student loans), but 2 of them are university adjunct professor positions so that's exciting! Classes start Monday! :D

Anyway, here's another chapter. Hopefully there will be more soon, but who knows? Look what happened last time. I joined PIR and saw that Tro rec'ed this. It made me feel guilty enough to write a chapter. lol. Thanks, Tro!

**Chapter Five**

_"Jane."_

He looked up, wavering slightly. _He _wasn't dead. Was he?

His lips moved, the voice escaping sound rough even to his own ears. "Cho?"

He blinked, half expecting the solid man in front of him to disappear into the air. Instead, his companion remained a physical presence, staring back at him with an unmoving gaze.

Cho looked almost as if he hadn't expected Jane to respond. Jane moved a little, looking at the agent in curiosity. "Are you dead?"

"No."

No surprise at the query. No questions. No drama. Just _no_.

Jane relaxed, which surprised him. He hadn't realized he was tense. Yes, this was Cho. Straightforward as ever. A dark suited figure against the bright white of the walls.

For the first time in a long time, Jane looked down at his clothing. Rumpled white met his gaze, reminiscent of hospital scrubs. It was as if a switch had been flipped. He was suddenly absorbing details, paying attention to his surroundings in a way that he hadn't for days…weeks…months? Jane shrugged lightheartedly, uncaring. "So sorry, my friend. I'm not quite dressed to entertain."

Cho didn't move, arms still crossed over his. "You done here?"

Jane looked around at the white walls. The minimalist decor. A memory stirred. Years ago. This wasn't the first time he had been in a place like this. Why now? His mind skittered close to the image of a still woman on the pavement and he flinched.

His flippancy faded, his body seeming to deflate with it. He looked around more carefully, half expecting to see _her_ there. But it was just Cho standing in front of him. He knew he shouldn't feel disappointed. Sane people didn't conjure visions of dead people. He should be relieved that he was no longer hallucinating. He should be happy to leave this place- this _institution_.

His eyes ached and for some reason his throat felt thick.

He hadn't seen her for at least a few days.

She was gone. Leeched out of his life like blood from a wound until his only views of her came like movie stills against the back of his eyelids.

She was gone.

Giving a sad lift of the corner of his lips, he answered Cho.

"Yes. I guess I am."


	6. Fallen

I made a ff cover for this story and tried to upload it, but I don't think it's working... It's on my deviant art site, though (smdine).

This chapter was really hard to write. In fact, I find this story very difficult to pull off, but we'll see if I can make something of it...

**Chapter Six**

Two weeks. Amazing how easy it was to convince people of his sanity when he put his mind to it. Say the right things- just what they wanted to hear- and they were all too willing to believe that they had made a difference. That they had benevolently bestowed the gift of sanity.

Jane sighed, looking out the window from the passenger seat as Rigsby shifted uncomfortably behind the steering wheel. He had been able to keep his previous stay at the mental institution unknown (well, from everyone but _her_), but there had been no concealment of this sojourn. He knew that even five months ago he would have been ashamed to have the team know, but somehow he couldn't summon the energy to be ashamed of his weakness. In fact, he couldn't be bothered to care this time. He was certain that the team had been there when his tenuous hold on reality had snapped. The moment his hold on the land of the living had come undone.

When _she_ had died.

In truth, he couldn't recall much from those first few weeks. He had only the memory- the _nightmare_- of seeing her unmoving body, hearing Van Pelt's choked and horrified words.

_"She's dead."_

Then nothing. Until he had opened his eyes to the bright lights of the institution, like a newborn baby being born in a hospital, heedless of his situation.

For some reason, thinking of those first blurred memories of his latest stay at the hospital made him recall his life with his father. That dark red tent, slightly musty from being folded up near the trucks that hauled hay for the animals. The manic gleam in the eyes of people desperate for hope. The speculative glimmer a response in his father's gaze.

The crystal orb that was the centerpiece of the table draped in patterned gypsy fabric, cleverly presented as a family heirloom.

Odd that these two times in his life would be linked.

He dimly remember a cracked image of himself- a reflection- with that same expression of desperation, yearning. Manic.

He sighed again, engrossed in watching the dark clouds on the horizon nearing. Perhaps if he hadn't been so distracted by clouds made heavy and dark with rain (and his own mind heavy and dark with memories and unfulfilled longings) he might have noticed Rigsby swallowing nervously. Or loosening his tie as if the car was somehow lacking air.

Perhaps Patrick Jane would have noticed these tells and realized that there was something Rigsby was keeping from him.

Perhaps he would have tricked Rigsby into spilling his secret.

Perhaps he would have taken one look at the tall man and been able to deduce the secret himself.

But he didn't.

Instead, he stood on the precipice, waiting for the storm to fall from the dark mass in the sky, waiting for the thunder to crash upon the earth like a great awakening.

Patrick Jane stood on the precipice, waiting for something (_someone_) to restore him to the world of the living like rain gives deadened earth new life.

But he feared that second chances were just that and there would be no third.

Almost a decade ago, his life-restoring rain had fallen. And he had soaked it up, blissfully unaware that fallen rain could be used up. Was finite.

Fallen angels.

Fallen soldiers.

Fallen.

And if that life was gone- _fallen_- so was his.


	7. Calm

Hi guys! So again, late with updates. Sorry! This fic is really hard to write. Why did I decide to write something with a very difficult (almost unmanageable) storyline? We'll see if I can make it. Here's chapter seven. The turning point is very soon.

**Chapter Seven: **Calm

Jane stood on the sidewalk, staring at the façade of the condo in front of him. He knew he shouldn't be here. He should just try to forget. It was almost certainly healthier. Mentally healthier.

Besides that, Rigsby was probably in a panic right now. He was supposed to bring Jane to a little coffee shop. Jane supposed the team was waiting to greet him, but he honestly hadn't been listening to whatever Rigsby had said. The storm had yet to break and he was poised taut as a bow.

Tense. Restless.

There had been no choice but to give Rigsby the slip. He had needed to be somewhere else. Not in a coffee shop surrounded by worried and uncomfortable faces. He needed _her_.

Although his expression was curiously blank as he continued to gaze at the door, internally he was arguing with himself. This was exactly what he shouldn't do. Hadn't he decided to let it go? To let _her_ go?

But he—he just…missed her. Ached for her company. Her smile. Her scowl. Her soft voice: _"Jane, please. Just say something. Anything. Show me that you're here."_

He exhaled sharply. No. That had been a hallucination.

She was gone. Smile, voice, _life_ leeched out of her that day as she lay on the pavement.

It really wouldn't do to chase hallucinations—the temptation was just as strong as it had been with the belladonna…in fact, maybe he could have a special blend of tea with—

No. She would not be happy if he started in on controlled substances and somehow he couldn't bring himself to dishonor her memory in that way. He shuffled closer to the door. He needed something.

Just to get him through his first day out of the institution. His hands were trembling, like an addict needing a fix. His hand grasped the cool metal of his small kit in his pocket.

Her stuff was probably gone. It had been quite a while.

It probably didn't even smell like her anymore. Someone else probably lived here now.

Nothing about this would help him.

He should just leave.

A soft click and he was in.


	8. Slumber

I'm so annoyed. I had written this, but then somehow it closed without saving (never has happened to me with a story before!). So I had to rewrite this! :(

Maybe it's better now, though. Hopefully. Lol.

**Chapter Eight: **_Slumber_

The moment he walked in, her scent assailed him. His eyes closed as the door shut behind him. He didn't even take in his surroundings, too overwhelmed by the smell of her—so familiar, so lovely, so…home.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, breathing her in and feeling his body relax slowly. It felt like hours, days. It felt like seconds. It felt like more than he had had in weeks, but less than he needed.

Finally, he opened his eyes, looking around the condo. His eyes widened. Her stuff was still there, as if she had just left to grab something from the market. He idly wondered if the team had been keeping up her residence. His gaze took in her TV, her coffee table, her couch. A blazer was tossed haphazardly over the arm of the couch and it drew him to it like a bee to particularly succulent honey.

Sinking into the embrace of the couch, he reached out hesitantly and his fingers brushed the fabric of the blazer. His breath caught in his throat. His hand fisted in the material, drawing it to him.

His eyes felt suspiciously wet. Holding the blazer a mere hair's breadth away from his face, he inhaled her concentrated fragrance.

He could almost pretend that she was just upstairs, swiping some mascara over her eyelashes and wondering suspiciously if he was snooping through her things.

He could almost pretend that she would come down, snarking at him for showing up unannounced.

He could almost pretend that her eyes would snap green fire.

That her chest would rise and fall with her indignant breaths.

Rise and fall. Breathing. Living.

He could almost pretend…

His throat was tight and he pressed his face to the forgotten blazer, trying to absorb whatever he could of her. Curling up on her couch, he saw his daughter in his mind's eye. Two years old and clutching her blankie.

He wrapped himself around the blazer—the only thing he had left of _her_—and tried to banish thoughts of yearning, loss. He could no longer tell what he was yearning for, what the loss was for which he grieved most. He tried to tell himself that he hadn't come here to see her. That wasn't sane. Once someone was dead, they were gone.

He _wasn't_ disappointed that she hadn't appeared to him.

He hadn't expected that.

Really.

He wrapped himself around his fragmented memories of her dark hair and green eyes and steadfast loyalty. Surrounded by her scent, hugged by her belongings…

He enveloped himself in dreams of her and slept with no desire to wake.


	9. Unwound

Oh man, this is very, very hard to write. Probably the hardest thing I've ever had to write.

**Chapter Nine: **_Unwound_

He awoke to the sound of metal sliding on metal and the creak of a door. Muffled voices grew louder as he neared full consciousness.

Eyes still closed, he smiled softly as he heard her voice. Her cinnamon infused scent invaded his senses and, for a moment, he felt...at peace.

The smile faded as reality intruded. He sat up suddenly, brow furrowed and eyes trying to search through the now dark room.

Why did he hear her voice?

"God, I can't believe Rigsby lost him. It's been less than a day." Her irritation shone through and for a moment he was just so _thankful_ to hear it that he couldn't even bring himself to care that he was hallucinating again.

The lights went on and he squinted into the brightness. Blinking, her form became clearer and he stilled. She had her back to him and he just made out Cho's figure over her shoulder. Cho locked gazes with Jane.

"Hi, Jane."

Simple as that.

Her dark hair flew out as she whirled to face him, breathing out his name as she saw him.

A band tightened around his chest. She wasn't real.

She took a few steps toward him.

She wasn't real.

Cho walked in and sat in the armchair next to the couch without acknowledging Lisbon. Jane knew that he wouldn't acknowledge Lisbon because she _was not real_. She was gone. Dead. Cho spoke. "Why'd you leave Rigsby?"

Jane forced himself to look at Cho. "I had to."

Cho's expression didn't change. "Why?"

Jane ignored Lisbon's figure moving closer. She wasn't real. "I needed to be near what is left of her."

Now Cho's eyebrows rose a bit. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jane cut him off.

"I know. It's stupid." Jane ran a hand through his hair in agitation, creating more disarray in the golden curls. "I mean, the probability of her stuff even being here was…but it is."

His hand fell to the blazer laid across his lap. "And even if she's—I know that she's…well, I had to."

Cho looked at him for a long moment. Jane heard _her_ expel a harsh breath.

He could not look at her, he reminded himself. She. Was. _Not_. _Real_.

His body was tense with the effort of resisting.

And then the world's axis shifted, leaving Jane once more reeling on unstable ground.

Cho turned. "Boss?"

Jane stopped breathing. Cho saw her…?

He couldn't move. He felt paralyzed, clutching her blazer and staring at the floor in front of her couch. The soft click of heels and then her shoes—_Lisbon loafers_, a memory from another time, another conversation—invaded his view.

"Jane?"

He couldn't look up at her, afraid that if he saw her face, he would break down, beg her to stay with him. If he acknowledged her, then it would collapse. This lovely dream where he wasn't hallucinating, where Cho could see her, too. That would fall away and she would be gone.

And he would be here alone. Again.

"Jane. Look at me."

He had to ignore her.

The brush of a hand against his hair and then the soft, warm press of fingers on his jaw, lifting his head, forcing their eyes to meet. Blood rushed in his ears and he lost himself in her sad gaze. Regret flickered through her emerald eyes.

Jane's voice was rough—scratchy—when he spoke. "Cho? Am I—"

Lisbon's hand fell away and her eyes were chambers housing tortured emotion. Jane wanted to look away, to look to Cho to confirm that this was a hallucination again. He didn't move.

Cho's response came across the still room like a crashing vase in a library.

"It's her, Jane."

The edges of Jane's vision tinted black, his fingers clenching and unclenching convulsively.

Cho spoke once more. "She's really here. You're not seeing things."

Jane's eyes filled with tears, the moisture pushing the darkness away. Simultaneously angry and relieved, he rubbed a hand over his face, trying to regain control of his emotions. He laughed lightly, weakly, unsure if he was stuck in a dream—maybe a _nightmare_ if he had to wake to find that she was dead—or if he could trust that this was real.

He wanted to ask questions—_how? Why?_—and even opened his mouth, working to push the words through a throat constricted with emotion. He teetered on the knife point of control, wanting nothing more than to unravel this latest puzzle. Terrified that if he unraveled it, he would be unraveling what was left of himself.

He would have made the words come, would have asked Cho—asked _her_—but her hand reached out once more, tentatively brushing his shoulder.

He couldn't stop it.

Her soft touch unwound something in him and he could do nothing but reach out and pull her to him, wrapping his arms around her hips and burying his face in her stomach.

Sobbing and breathing her in and hoping that he wouldn't wake from this if it was a dream.

Her hands fluttered awkwardly in the air. It was _so her_ that he knew this must be real. His dreams, his nightmares, would have had her clutching him immediately.

In reality, she was so unsure of how to handle him when he was this emotionally vulnerable.

Distantly he heard her tell Cho to give them a moment.

A moment passed and then her hands settled on his shoulders, squeezing a bit. Another moment—a _lifetime_—and her hands slid along his back, drawing him closer, embracing him as he allowed himself to fully grieve for the first time since he saw her blood spilled across the pavement.

To grieve, apparently, for this living, breathing woman who had haunted him these last few months.

No. Spectres haunted. Ghosts.

His grip tightened.

She was no wraith about to disappear.

He was never letting her go again.


	10. Falter

Okay. I lied. _This_ was the hardest thing I've ever written. Ugh. I can't wait for this fic to be over. Why the hell did my brain come up with this idea? I need to learn when to say no, apparently.

**Chapter Ten:** _Falter_

A while later—not long enough, he thought desperately—she pulled back. He resisted at first, but she was firm and extracted herself, taking a step back and sitting on the coffee table in front of him. Their knees brushed and he found his gaze fixated on the contact.

"How?" His voice was a whisper, hoarse and wrung out with emotion. He heard her take a deep breath and knew she was trying to put together an answer.

"Let me start at the beginning." He saw her rub her hands against her thighs—a nervous, unsure gesture that somehow comforted him.

"I—well, you know—at least I think you do," she stumbled a bit, as if wondering where to start. He let her falter. "I went to follow that lead and you guys followed. You were almost right behind me."

He did remember. Stupidly, she had decided to get a head start while the rest of the team helped extract Jane from a particularly clingy, grieving woman.

If only she had waited.

Lisbon, either not noticing or ignoring his inner torment, continued. "He came out of nowhere. He had to have been expecting me and he acted fast. Too fast. I had no time to respond."

Her hand lifted and hovered over his knee for a moment, wanting to comfort but afraid to hurt. Eventually, she returned it to her own leg and he felt a pang of disappointment. Wished that she had more courage to reach out to him. She had so much courage in her day-to-day life. Why did it fail her when it came to the two of them?

"_So, that thing you said before you shot me? Wh-what did you mean?"_

"_What did I say? I was—kinda hyped up."_

"_Ah. Boy, me too…"_

"I don't remember much of what happened next. Cho told me later that I was knocked unconscious. Then, well, he cut me." Her hands disappeared from his vision and he glanced up quickly to see them touching her throat self-consciously. He could see now that there was a thin, white scar marring her skin.

He looked down again, clearing his throat. "But Grace. She said—"

"_She's dead."_

"She didn't know. She thought I had died. Hell, you all did. She didn't know that saying it would make you—" Lisbon stopped abruptly. The corner of Jane's mouth kicked up, darkly amused.

"You mean she didn't realize it would send me into the land of crazies?"

Lisbon stood, pacing the room. "Don't say that. You're not crazy. You just…"

He leaned back against the couch, content now to watch her frenetic movements, feeling calmer as she became more emotional. He felt himself slipping back to his normal façade, ever the watcher. This felt familiar. Normal.

Reading Lisbon. Trying to understand her. Draw her out.

"I just became unhinged, Lisbon." His voice was both amused and gentle. Even now, she was in denial about who he really was.

"Not unhinged," she denied vehemently. "Just…reminded of your family. Upset. Needing to get away from your emotions."

He shifted, uncomfortable at how well she knew him. He slid his gaze to the side, muttering, "Not reminded of my family. Not exactly. It was _you_."

She paused, not sure how to respond. She decided to do what they usually did and continued with her story. "By the time Rigsby realized I was still alive, it was too late. You were…well, you were pretty much catatonic."

"And after?" She sat in the armchair. "You just wouldn't _see_ me. Couldn't, maybe. I don't know."

"I thought you were a hallucination."

She blinked, startled. "…you heard me then? Saw me?" 

"Yes, but I tried not to. I have nightmares…" he trailed off, hoping he wouldn't have to explain. He didn't want to explain that he would dream of normalcy only to have it ripped from him when he stumbled upon her body. Bleeding out. On the pavement. In a bed. In her office. The interrogation room.

So many variations of horror. Death. Loss.

He didn't want to have to explain that he had been afraid the nightmares had leeched over onto his waking moments. He didn't want to explain that even _he_ had believed himself insane. Just like all those years ago.

She leaned forward, forearms resting on her knees. Her eyes were soft and luminescent. "Oh, Jane…"

He closed his eyes briefly, sure that he would drown in the pity coloring her tone. "Yes, well, you always knew I wasn't the most stable individual. It's not like it was my first stay in the joint."

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I know you how you feel about that part of your past. And I tried—God, I tried. But you were so unreachable."

She twisted her hands together, obviously frustrated. She had been so helpless, unable to get through to him.

He had shattered and she hadn't been able to put him back together. He had the sick feeling that all of her attempts would leave her cut, bleeding, _scarred_ from trying to piece together the shards.

But, as he always knew, he was a selfish man.

She was the only thing that could heal him and, though he didn't want to hurt her, he also didn't want to let her go.

Wasn't sure if he even could anymore.

They were interrupted when Cho came to the doorway. He stood, as if at attention, ignoring the heightened emotion in the room. "You tell him?"

Jane keenly understood immediately that there was more to come. Lisbon bit her lip.

"Not quite."

Now Jane sat up straighter. "Tell me what?"

Lisbon sighed.

"It's about Red John."


	11. Start

This story has gotten away from me. My only hope now is that I just finish it and it doesn't completely suck. Sorry, guys! I promise I'll try to be better next fic…

**Chapter Eleven:** _Start_

"You mean, it was Red John who hurt you?" Jane was confused. "Well, excuse me for devolving to colloquialisms, but: duh."

Lisbon shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well, of course it was him. But…"

Jane, a little impatient with Lisbon's reticence, looked to Cho. Cho didn't fail him.

"He's dead."

Jane sucked in a startled breath. Of all the words he thought might come out of Cho's mouth, those were likely very close to last. He couldn't speak for a moment. He shook his head, pointing his finger at the other two. "This is a joke, right?"

They didn't respond, faces deathly serious. Jane continued, "Haha, guys. Yeah right."

He looked to Lisbon and her eyes slid away from his. His heart stilled, feeling devoid of movement. He wondered if it had stopped beating.

He took a deep breath. Surely if he was breathing his heart must be beating, right?

His hand dropped. "You _are_ serious. Are you sure?"

Lisbon nodded.

"How can you be sure?"

Jane couldn't let himself believe them, didn't know if he wanted to.

"Jane," her voice was soft but firm, "trust me. It was him. You can look at all the files tomorrow, scrutinize everything about what happened, but it was him. I know it."

He didn't know what to say, didn't know what they wanted to hear. After a moment—for Jane, it almost felt as though everything had stopped—Lisbon turned to Cho. "I think we better postpone the team reunion. I'll take it from here."

Jane swallowed, tried to speak, had to swallow again to moisten his throat. It felt dried up and useless. "Yes, perhaps that would be best. We can assure Rigsby and Grace tomorrow that I'm alive and sane."

Cho nodded. "Right."

He turned with a simplicity of movement, tossing a stoic _goodnight_ over his shoulder. The door shut quietly, but it may as well have slammed for the impact it had on Lisbon. She tensed, but remained as frozen as Jane. He could practically see the gears turning in her head as she tried to figure out what to do, how to handle him.

He suddenly felt very weary.

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off.

"Can we just not talk about it tonight? It's late," he said as he glanced toward the window, the slivers of the outside a black void of night. He had slept the afternoon away, yet still felt exhausted.

She hesitated, surprised. "If you're sure…"

Distantly, he knew why she was surprised. He supposed he was, too. Where was that burning passion to know everything Red John? That consuming obsession?

He thought about all the years hunting down the murderer. The faces of his wife and child flashed through his mind. Justice…revenge…two sides of a coin…a rose by any other name…

He tried to analyze his thoughts, his feelings. _If _Red John was dead, should he be disappointed? Angry? He had wanted to fulfill his vengeance. He had wanted to watch that monster bleed. To watch the blood as red as his family's seep from the body that had butchered his treasures.

_Her blood was on the pavement, turning it dark._

He thought that what he felt might be relief.

As his eyes traced that fine white line on Lisbon's throat, that relief mingled with guilt, but was also peppered with a hefty dose of happiness. Lisbon was _here_. Alive.

And maybe he wouldn't have to worry about Red John going after her. Going after his own happiness.

"I am sure." He yawned. "I need to sleep."

His eyes felt heavy and he fought to keep them open. He just wanted to take her in.

_She was real_.

He blinked slowly and, through his flickering view of her, he saw a soft smile spread on her face. "Go ahead, Jane."

He lay down, mumbling, "Don't leave."

His eyes stayed closed this time and her voice sounded amused when she answered. "I'm hardly likely to leave my house in the middle of the night for no reason."

He smiled, burrowing further into her couch, the blazer pillowing his head.

"Good."

He would deal with Red John tomorrow. For now, he just wanted to fall surrounded by her scent, hugged by her belongings…this time, he was eager to wake. He couldn't wait to start his morning with the sight of her.

Somehow, it felt as if it would be the start of something else…


	12. Dream

Lol, I just realized there's a lot of sleeping going on these past few chapters. Oh well. Look, Jane is emotionally exhausted and it's coming out physically, making such great amounts of sleep possible. Right? Right?

The bits at the end are from Shakespeare's _Hamlet_.

**Chapter Twelve: **_Dream_

_He was running. He felt the jarring impact through his feet and up his legs, making his breath catch with every step._

_Oddly though, there was no ground. Just an endless white, stretching below and above. Behind and before. Everywhere, so bright that it made his head hurt a bit._

_As he ran, he saw glimpses—a cracked mirror, a ghostly red face mocking him from a wall, sad green eyes begging for a response, dark hair spilled along a sidewalk._

_They disappeared as if they had never been there._

_An orb appeared above him, spinning slowly, lazily. Shining, somehow clear and yet not._

_A crystal ball._

_He wanted to reach out and touch it, but when his hand extended, it seemed the sphere danced away. Always a step out of reach._

_He just wanted to know why it held so much power for everyone._

"The Kingdom of God is a real place."

_He ran faster, reached further, stretching._

_He needed to know._

_Something needed fixing, but he couldn't remember what._

_Maybe the crystal ball would help._

_Faces seemed to rotate in a whirl within his mind. Each one begging him to save them, tell them what they needed to hear. See something in a ball of crystal. Desperate to believe._

_How could so many need something so small?_

_Maybe it could save him, too._

_A face seemed to appear in the ball and he stared, fascinated. Dark hair and green eyes and pouting lips, furrowed brow._

_He knew that face._

_He pushed his legs._

_He had to get it, get her._

"I'm always going to save you, Lisbon."

_It stayed beyond his reach and the image started to disappear. She started to disappear._

_Panic seized him and he sobbed out a panting breath._

_No…_

He came awake gasping for air and clutching the rumpled fabric of her blazer. The room was dark.

His legs twitched with the remembered need to move.

He breathed deeply, employing whatever biofeedback tricks he could in order to calm his pounding heart.

Lisbon was upstairs sleeping.

She was fine.

Alive.

_Real_.

He stared up to the ceiling, focusing on breathing in and out.

In and out.

He remembered the fading image of her face.

He couldn't sit here.

Standing, he made his way up her stairs and silently slipped into her bedroom. She pulled him to her with the force of a strong magnet and he was powerless to resist.

Her form was a dark shadow against inky blackness.

Just seeing the pile of blankets that was Lisbon made something inside of him loosen.

He snatched the extra, unused pillow from beside her and settled on the floor next to her bed.

The floor was hard and should have been far less comfortable than the couch downstairs, but her nearness calmed him. His eyes grew heavy once more. He, who never slept, felt the call of Orpheus.

He felt himself being drawn into the realm between wakefulness and dreaming…

_To sleep perchance to dream…_

He remembered wanting to forget.

_White bandages enveloped his wrists._

He remembered wanting to escape.

…_what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil…_

The darkness of death and the darkness of life had seemed interchangeable.

He heard the soft exhale of Lisbon on the bed and, for a moment, was tempted to invade her space more fully. To _feel_ her breathing, living.

It felt like something too good to be happening in his life and, if Jane had believed in the same God she did, he would be thanking Him at this moment.

But he didn't.

So he breathed in the scent of cinnamon and slept.


	13. Ache

When will this end?, you may well be asking (I am). Hopefully in a chapter or two…

**Chapter Thirteen: **_Ache_

Jane's eyes opened to chaos and darkness.

He realized quickly that the darkness was due to a pile of blankets covering his face. The chaos was due to a cursing, grumpy Lisbon sprawled apparently half on top of him and half on the floor next to him.

"What the hell, Jane?"

He reached up and pulled the blankets off his face. Sunlight filtered through the room and he blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust. "Lisbon? You okay?"

Her face was suddenly above him, scowling. "No thanks to you. Why the hell are you on the floor next to my bed?"

Her hair was rumpled and the jersey she wore had slid down off one shoulder. She reached up and rubbed the side of her head, creating more disarray among her dark locks.

She looked adorable.

He focused on her hand massaging her scalp. "Did you hurt yourself when you fell?" 

She positively growled. "You mean, when I tripped over your body and thus you made me fall?"

She couldn't have hurt herself much if she was still so grumpy. She needed her morning coffee.

The familiarity of her grouchy morning personality made happiness bubble inside. It spilled out of him in the form of a broad grin. "Yes, I suppose I do mean that."

She huffed. "Why do you look so happy about it?"

She eyed him suspiciously and, impossibly, his smile grew. "Well, admittedly, I'm not so happy that you fell, but I am extremely happy to see your face this morning, my dear."

Her bad-tempered scowl faded into uncomfortable fidgeting. "Yes, well, it's past time we were up."

She stood, her haste at trying to escape the warm affection on his face causing her to forget that she was clad only in her jersey, lots of skin peeking out from its hem. He eyed her legs appreciatively. When she noticed where his gaze was fixed, she blushed hotly and snatched up her blankets, holding them protectively in front of her.

The large pile of blankets—which she must have dragged off the bed after her feet got tangled in him—made her look unbelievably small, like a little girl dragging blankets down the hall to her parents' room after a nightmare.

Again: adorable.

Not that he would admit that to her (yet).

"I'm going to shower, Jane," she stated formally, an attempt to regain some sort of dignity and distance. "You will be downstairs when I come out." 

After those words, spoken with an ominous promise (threat), she swept into the master bath, leaving him stretched on the floor of her bedroom staring after her. He folded his hands behind his head.

There was a lot to figure out, but after only one night in her presence he was feeling more whole than he had in weeks.

As if his shattered self had somehow been pieced together and was slowly being stitched up.

He felt so happy at that moment that he ached.


	14. Light

Ugh, I planned for this to be the last chapter, but Jane got all angsty, of course. So maybe one more?

**Chapter Fourteen: **_Light_

His attic lair was still intact. He sat in its dim and still space, the room an outer expression of the darkness that had been inside him all of these years.

It was true.

Red John was dead.

Jane had spent hours studying the files, the photos, meeting those who had given testimonials. He couldn't deny it.

Even if Red John's—Brandt Whitford in the everyday world—network hadn't crumbled slowly in the weeks following the murderer's death, Jane would have known simply by the man's (no, the monster's) home and everything in the private chamber of the attic.

He looked around him, shuddering in disgust.

"_I only wonder why the two of you didn't become life-long friends the moment you shook hands."_

Red John could have been sitting, plotting, in his own attic lair at any given time that Jane was in his hole at CBI HQ.

Jane leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

Notes on murders—like a diary. Photos, charts. Covering the walls of Brandt Whitford's room of death.

He had cried when he read about his daughter's murder.

It was the only way he could let it out now that the choice of revenge had disappeared.

Hours passed.

He didn't move.

A creak sounded and he looked up.

Lisbon.

Of course.

She stepped toward him, hesitant. He was struck by how much had happened since this morning. Just this morning he was full to bursting of happiness and the day had chipped away at it, as if he had been scraped out and was now empty. Or maybe just full of a weary sadness.

And guilt.

Definitely guilt.

Because even after crying over the fact that his little girl had—that she…well, even after all of that, Jane still felt something swell inside at the sight of Lisbon.

He didn't deserve that. Didn't deserve her. But he was so happy that she was there.

Even if he forced her to come into the darkness after him.

She squinted a little at him in the dim light of the attic room. "Jane?"

Just his name and yet the way she said it made it heavy with meaning. A million questions reduced to one.

He sighed. "Lisbon, you shouldn't be here."

He rubbed a hand over his eyes and when he drew it away he saw that she had kneeled on the floor in front of him. "But you knew I would come, didn't you?"

Her voice was soft, gentle. As if she was afraid he would break apart. He was a bit surprised to find that even after everything he had learned, he still felt…well, not okay, but still not as broken as yesterday.

And he reached out a hand to softly, reverently, touch her hair. As if she was a vision.

And she was.

A vision of light in his darkness.

"Yes," he responded hoarsely. "I knew you would come."


	15. Happiness

Okay, this is it. Wow, I have never, ever felt so insecure about a fic in my life. But I'm glad it's over, though it may feel a bit abrupt. Maybe it doesn't though. Who knows?

**Chapter Fifteen: **_Happiness_

He breathed in the fresh air, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. A hand slid into his and he savored the texture of a delicate, tender grasp.

Keeping his eyes closed, he smiled. "How'd you know I'd be here?"

"You're not as mysterious as you like to believe," came her teasing voice.

And it was something small—maybe insignificant—but he felt a shift at that moment, as if he had come together. Whole.

"Hmm," he hummed, finally opening his eyes. He wanted to see her face. Couldn't see it enough to make up for those long weeks of thinking her dead.

He felt proud at seeing the happy twinkle in her eyes, the playful tilt to her lovely mouth.

She raised a brow, a bit of suspicion creeping in. "I know that self-satisfied look. What did you do?"

He laughed. Things had changed so much in the last year, but somehow they hadn't changed at all. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "That's for me to know and you to find out."

She groaned as he stepped back and started walking, pulling her along by her hand. "Patrick…"

He thrilled inside at the sound of his name on her tongue. It would never get old.

"Teresa…" he dragged her name out, mimicking her tone, rolling the s exotically. He grinned back at her cheekily and she rolled her eyes.

"Fine, keep your secrets. I know how you like to think you're unpredictable," she huffed, feigning annoyance.

He thought of the small, simple band warming his vest pocket. Thought of all the ways to convince her to say yes.

Thought about manipulating _her_ into being the one who would have to convince _him_.

Yes, he just might keep some secrets.

He glanced up at the sun. The bright orb seemed so perfect. Bright.

He squinted a bit, then blinked. For a moment, his vision was full of white and a crystal ball wavered into focus.

A pull on his hand brought him back to the present.

Warmth. Happiness. _Teresa_.

He didn't need a crystal ball to save him, tell him what he wanted to hear. Didn't need to understand why others yearned for the magic, the oblivion of things like crystal balls. Tooth fairies, Santa Clause, witches, psychics, God…

All he needed was Teresa Lisbon.

His hand tightened.

And he had her.


End file.
